


Strike Me Into Sparks

by sirfoxheart



Series: Sex Magic [5]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Edging, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Sensitivity, Sex Magic, phantom touch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 22:28:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19412680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sirfoxheart/pseuds/sirfoxheart
Summary: Thinking of just how that spell had affected him, Quentin felt a shiver go through him. If he could get him evencloseto being that worked up, he wouldn’t be able to think straight for days. Ifthiswas hot, Eliot was about to set him on fire.---Or, Eliot tells Quentin that he can get him as worked up as he was when he was affected by the sensitivity spell. How can Quentin say no to that?





	Strike Me Into Sparks

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the wonderful Riz and Gigi for reading this through for me, and to the RAO folks for their constant encouragement.
> 
> (Bonus points if you know where the title comes from)

Twisting the coin in his hand, Quentin flipped it upward, following it with his eye carefully as it rose and then fell. As soon as it came back within reach he lifted his hand, snatching the coin between his fingers and twirling it in a quick movement that replaced it with the trick coin that he’d had tucked firmly against his palm.

The movement was quick, but it wasn’t seamless. Dropping the coin into the palm of his other hand, he shook out his right, loosening the tension in his fingers. He’d gotten better at this since he’d started studying magic, even the good old fashioned muggle stuff, but after too long his hands always started to stiffen.

It wasn’t until he’d flicked the coin into the air for a second time that he realised that Eliot was watching him. The two of them were sitting on Eliot’s bed, studying. If studying included practicing coin tricks while Eliot attempted to spell a pen to remember every word that it had ever written. He glanced quickly across to where he sat at the other end of the bed, pausing a moment too long and then fumbling to catch the coin as it sped past his eyes. Eliot’s smile widened slightly, his pen and his page of stolen notes forgotten by his side, and Quentin returned it hesitantly. “What?” he asked, feeling both pleased and nervous at finding himself being watched.

Eliot leaned back on his arm, sliding his knee slightly until it knocked against his. His eyes never left him, and carried a hint of intensity that belied the casualness of his movement. “You remember that sensitivity spell?”

Snorting quietly, Quentin uncrossed his legs, nudging Eliot’s knee right back. “You mean that spell that they won’t let you learn?”

“Ha,” Eliot said humourlessly, the corner of his mouth twisting. Fogg had erased the memories of the students who had cast it to stop them from remembering exactly how they’d fucked up the original spell. He hadn’t wanted anyone weaponizing it, and Eliot had been… well, furious wasn’t the right word, but it wasn’t far off either. “I mean that spell that your psychic friend is perfectly capable of lifting out of Fogg’s head if he decided to.”

 _Penny’s not my friend,_ Quentin thought automatically, but held the words back under the weight of Eliot’s gaze. He was going somewhere with this, he knew it.

Pausing, Eliot’s grimace softened into a faint smile as he reached across his body to touch Quentin’s ankle through his jeans, glancing up at him again as he trailed his fingers slowly up to his knee. The touch was muted significantly by the denim, but along with the sudden glint in Eliot’s eyes, it was enough to send a thrum of curiosity through him. Eliot’s lip darted out to wet his lips, and Quentin had to drag his eyes away to meet his gaze again. “I bet I could make you feel that good without the spell.”

The air in the room suddenly felt thicker. Quentin felt every beat of his pulse in his ears. He swallowed, not wanting to draw attention to himself by clearing his throat. “Okay.”

Eliot moved immediately, pulling his legs underneath him so he could rise up onto his knees, leaning over the bed to meet Quentin when he leaned forward to kiss him. A warm, familiar grip settled on the back of his neck, Eliot’s other hand cupping his face and Quentin sank into the touch, the hard edges of the coins biting into his palm as he gripped the front of Eliot’s shirt. Straddling him, Eliot lowered himself to sit on Quentin’s thighs, tilting his head how he wanted it with a gentle press against his jaw, and Quentin tried to straighten his smile, thrilling at just how quickly Eliot turned up the heat once he’d decided that it’s what he wanted.

Thinking of just how that spell had affected him, Quentin felt a shiver go through him. If he could get him even _close_ to being that worked up, he wouldn’t be able to think straight for days. If _this_ was hot, Eliot was about to set him on fire.

Eliot’s hand dropped from his face, tugging at the hem of his shirt, slipping his hand underneath it, and Quentin leaned into the touch as he slid the palm of his hand up over his skin. He felt Eliot’s other hand tugging at his and loosened his grip on his shirt, lifting his arms so that Eliot could pull it over his head. As soon as it was gone, Quentin reached forward again, this time for Eliot’s neck, intent to pull him down to kiss him again, but was stalled when he grabbed his hands.

He didn’t realise he was still holding onto the coins until Eliot pried them out of his hands, and felt his cheeks warm when he huffed a laugh under his breath. “You’re adorable,” he said, flicking the coins into the air, where they suddenly changed direction and floated over to the bedside table.

“Adorable’s not quite what i’m going for here,” Quentin protested, but the affront was immediately soothed by the warmth in Eliot’s eyes as he leaned down to kiss him again.

“But you are,” Eliot murmured against his lips. His hands smoothed down Quentin’s bare back and then up, one fanning out between his shoulder blades while the other cupped his head again, his fingertips slipping into his hair. “Adorable, that is. And beautiful. And captivating. And mine.” Quentin’s mind fought instinctively against the praise, even as his chest swelled with delight that Eliot might see him like that. Eliot’s mouth pressed firm to his again, and he kissed him with the fullness of that feeling, grabbing tightly to his shoulders to keep him close when he started to push him back down onto the bed.

Eliot shifted higher until he was sitting over Quentin’s hips, and Quentin set his hands on his thighs, lifting up into him, enjoying the friction on his cock as it twitched slowly into hardness. Supporting himself above him with his elbows on either side of Quentin’s head, Eliot softened his kiss before sitting upright and caressing his cheek with a gentle touch. “Do you trust me?”

Quentin looked up at Eliot, with his eyes so soft and his smile almost wicked, and it wasn’t even a question. “Yes.”

“Close your eyes.”

The image of Eliot leaning over him stayed with him as his eyes slid shut. After a few seconds, he felt Eliot’s weight lift off him, the bed dipping slightly on his left, and he smiled when he felt hands flatten on his stomach. They danced lightly up his skin, over his chest, pausing to tweak a nipple playfully before they slid under his armpits, and Quentin felt a thrill of exhilaration as he let him guide his arms above his head. Eliot’s hands circled Quentin’s wrists, warm and strong as he pressed them lightly into the bed, just high enough for him to feel the strain in his arms but not enough to be uncomfortable.

The soft touch of lips to the sensitive skin beside his hip bone made him jump, and Quentin laughed under his breath. “Oh, this again,” he said, doing his best to sound casual even as his breathing picked up just from the thought of what Eliot could do to him with that phantom touch.

“This again,” Eliot agreed, except his voice wasn’t anywhere near his head, or in reach at all of his hands above him, and Quentin opened his eyes and turned his head down to see Eliot looking up at him through his lashes as his lips closed over his skin. Sucking in his breath, he twisted his neck to look up at his arms. It looked like he was just holding them there, but when he tried to pull them down Eliot’s hands kept them pressed against the mattress. And they were Eliot’s hands — he could tell from the size, from the way he gripped him. Just like the spell they’d used with the phantom lips, mouth, tongue… it was just like he was really touching him. Wide eyed, he looked back to Eliot, who was watching him carefully. “This okay?” he said softly, mouthing along his skin.

“Uh huh,” he said. This was… more than okay. When had he figured out the alteration to the spell? He pulled his arms again, testing the grip on his wrists and biting his lip when he found that he couldn’t pull away. That felt… yeah, that felt good. Eliot’s hand settled on his sides and held him there while he kissed his way slowly up his torso. He took his time with it, tracing patterns with his lips and his tongue all over his stomach. Quentin fought to keep his breathing even when Eliot laved his tongue over his nipple, before taking it between his teeth and flicking his tongue over it again and again. His left hand left his side to pinch his other one, and Quentin threw his head back, gasping quietly.

Eliot’s hand trailed up to cup the back of his neck, as he abandoned his nipples to kiss his way up his chest, licking a long, slow stripe along the length of his collarbone before making his way across his shoulder to his neck. By the time he’d worked up over his throat, along his jaw, to catch his earlobe between his teeth, Quentin was rock hard and trembling. “How are you feeling?” Eliot said, his voice low and thick in his ear.

“Fantastic,” Quentin breathed, but then — less so, when Eliot’s mouth, his hands, then his body lifted off of him, raising goosebumps when the cool air of the room hit his hot skin. “Wait —”

Lifting his head, he found Eliot standing beside the bed, his hands on the top button of his shirt and his eyebrow cocked. “You don’t want me to take my clothes off?” Without waiting for an answer, he slipped the button through the hole and dropped his fingers to the next one, his fingers spreading the top of his shirt almost by accident to reveal the defined lines of his collarbones. The next opened his shirt to the faint dusting of dark hair on his chest, and Eliot paused to smooth his hand up over his neck, rolling it slightly as though he were stretching before he returned to his shirt buttons.

It was obscene, how good he looked while removing his clothes. He moved so casually that it wouldn’t have been a striptease from anyone else, but Eliot was well aware of how to move his body to best effect, and the lack of deliberate showiness worked for him just as well as the exaggerated movements one might normally expect. Shrugging his shoulders, he let the shirt slip down his arms before catching it before it dropped past his wrists. He slung it over the back of the chair by his desk before reaching for his belt, and Quentin watched intently as he pulled the leather through the loops.

Eliot sat down to remove his shoes, setting them neatly on the floor beside the chair, and then stood as he unbuttoned his slacks. He pushed them down his legs, and Quentin wasn’t sure whether he hadn’t been wearing underwear or whether he just dropped them at the same time, but his mouth was suddenly dry as he saw Eliot’s cock standing full and proud between his legs. 

It wasn’t until Eliot took a step towards him that he realised he was staring. He tore his eyes away, and wasn’t surprised to find him smirking. “Enjoying the show?” he asked, setting one knee on the bed.

“It’s —” _okay._ His painfully obvious joke was swallowed as Eliot’s open mouth closed over his, kissing him deep and slow and dirty, and he felt every slide of his tongue against his shiver through his body. Quentin squirmed, desperate for more attention on his cock than the small amount of friction he could manage from the inside of his jeans. He wanted to pull Eliot down against him, feel bare skin on his bare skin, to feel the slide of his cock over his own.

He wanted Eliot to never stop kissing him like this.

He couldn’t help the whine that left him when Eliot pulled away, but the hungry look he was met with offset his embarrassment. “You’re so turned on already, aren’t you?” he asked, and Quentin sucked in his breath when his fingers brushed against sensitive skin as he worked his jeans open. He crawled off of the mattress and walked around to the end of the bed, removing Quentin’s shoes before pulling his jeans and then his underwear down his legs, and Quentin started as his cock slipped from his underwear and slapped against his stomach.

The bed dipped again, and then Eliot was straddling him once more, sitting on his thighs and then canting his hips forward until he felt a hardness pressing along his own. “Oh,” he said, pleasure shooting through him at finally having Eliot touching him, rubbing his cock against his. He lifted up into him, desperate to feel that again. “That’s…”

“Yeah?” Eliot said, grinning down at him when Quentin couldn’t force his mouth to form the right words. He grinded down on him again, his breath hitching, and Quentin had half a second to appreciate that he was enjoying this too before Eliot’s hand wrapped around them both, and the feeling of the two of them pressed together in the tight circle of Eliot’s fist erased every semblance of coherent thought.

With one hand on Quentin’s hip to hold him in place, Eliot kept his other still as he thrust up into it, and the friction of him rubbing against him tore a groan from deep within his chest. Eliot moved slowly, letting him feel every inch, and he knew that could come just from that if he didn’t stop. He watched Eliot watch him, and when that became too much he screwed his eyes shut, feeling far too seen in his own pleasure, and that was when Eliot pulled away.

Quentin was breathing heavily when Eliot moved up until he was perched lightly on his chest, and that breath caught in his throat when his hand encircled his cock again, jerking himself off in long, slow movements. He was right in front of his face and Quentin, suddenly filled with an all-consuming need to taste him, stretched his neck forward, seeking contact with his tongue, but he remained just out of reach. He struggled, intent on grabbing Eliot’s hips and pulling him forward, but the grip on his wrists remained firm.

So he just stared, and panted, as Eliot’s hand moved along his length and back again, his eyes widening when he saw precome starting to bead at the slit. When the angle changed on the downstroke, Quentin watched hungrily as it dripped down his length, his tongue slipping out to wet his lips as he imagined wrapping them around the head, before he hastily looked up to see Eliot staring at him, his eyes dark.

On the next upstroke, Eliot continued the movement, letting go of his cock to brush his fingers across Quentin’s jaw, his cheek, his lips, and Quentin parted them eagerly to wrap them around Eliot’s fingers. He could already taste the salty headiness of him, as Eliot’s fingers stroked over his tongue. “Do you want it?” he asked huskily.

He sucked on Eliot’s fingers as he withdrew them. “Yes,” he said, rolling his hips up against air.

“Yes…?”

 _Fuck you,_ he thought, and he wasn’t sure if the sound that left him was a laugh or a groan or somewhere in between. “Please, Eliot, I —”

His words died in his throat when something passed over Eliot’s face and he shuffled forward, leaning over him to brace one hand on the bed above his head. Quentin’s eyes darted over the long, pale form hanging over him before dropping down, feeling a rush spread through him as he angled his dick down to rub it against Quentin’s lower lip. Moaning, Quentin lifted his head, licking over the tip, and Eliot twitched under his touch before pulling back, just out of reach no matter how he strained for it. He felt… ridiculous, for being so needy, for how much longing was thrumming through him, but Eliot’s brow was furrowed, his red lips parted.

“Can I…?”

“ _Yes,_ El, please —”

Quentin’s eyes slid closed as Eliot rubbed against his lips, stretching his mouth open wide to take him in. He pressed down on his tongue, and Quentin rolled it up against him for a moment before tilting his head to a better angle, and he moaned around him as he slid in deeper, sounding his protest when he pulled back. Eliot huffed a breathless laugh, and Quentin suddenly felt caught in his need to make Eliot feel just as worked up as he was, managing half a swirl of his tongue around him before he pushed back inside.

“You feel so good on me, Q,” Eliot said as he started to thrust, fucking his mouth slowly, and Quentin squirmed under the praise. He was aching to be touched again, would have given anything to drop his arms and take himself in hand, just for a moment, just for a second of relief. He pulled at his arms, and felt the hands around his wrists tighten. “You _look_ so good, taking me like this. I’ll never get tired of watching you take my dick like this. You love it, don’t you?”

Moaning, he twisted at the waist. Eliot’s thighs bracketed his chest, and he felt the warmth of his legs against his sides as he picked up his pace. Sucking in a breath through his nose, Quentin lifted his head, trying to take him deeper, wanting to please him as best as he could despite the fact that he could barely move. He thought he heard Eliot gasp over the rushing in his ears. “I’m not even touching you and you’re already lost in it, aren’t you? Just from letting me use you like this.”

Eliot pulled back, and Quentin took the opportunity to suck in air, opening his eyes to catch a glimpse of Eliot tutting above him before he leaned forward again, thrusting right back into his mouth. Before could do anything more than relax his mouth to take him, he felt fingers trailing up his inner thighs. It was unmistakably Eliot, despite the fact that he knew one was fisting in the quilt above his head, and the other curled around his head, holding him steady. _How many sets of hands do you have?_ he wondered as the touch danced up along his hips, over his stomach. His head swam with the potential as fingers toyed with his nipples. How many phantom touch spells could he cast and maintain control of at the same time?

The hands roaming over his body kept to _almost_ the right spots, and Quentin forced his focus away from his own pleasure once more. He did his best to blow Eliot despite having no control over the situation, knowing he couldn’t do his best job like this and knowing that was half the point. He sucked on him as best as he could without disrupting his rhythm, rolled his tongue against the underside when he could, and _breathed breathed breathed_ through his nose.

He could feel a mess of spittle on his cheeks and couldn’t do anything about it, but he didn’t care, not a single part of him, because Eliot was moaning loudly above him now, and all he wanted to do was grip onto his thighs, to drop his hands and press his fingers into Eliot’s ass while he was fucking into his mouth, wanted to — wanted to lie here and take everything that he wanted to give him. “You know how to break it if you need to,” Eliot reminded him, and — and he’d forgotten, he’d forgotten that he could but he also _wouldn’t dare_ , as he felt the bed dip as Eliot shifted his weight and then, then he stopped, no, he was _pushing in deeper,_ and Quentin held his breath, fought his gag reflex ( _relax relax relax_ ) as he slid into his throat.

“Fuck, Q,” Eliot said, and Quentin clung to the tremble in his voice, grounded himself in the tightening of his fingers in his hair. Eliot’s hips stuttered, and Quentin held still, not even considering breaking the spell. He could hold as long as Eliot needed him to, his… his throat was burning, his lungs were burning, his eyes, but he could… _fuck_. “I’m going to… I’m gonna come, and then you’re not allowed… you’re not allowed to come until I come again, okay? Okay Q, oh — _oh_ —”

He pulled back, all the way out, and Quentin gasped in a breath, choked on it, coughing, but he forced his eyes open again when he heard the slick sounds of Eliot jerking himself off, his cries changing pitch. He stared up at Eliot, lost in the way his features screwed up, in the quick motions of his hand, in the way his hips jerked forward as he started to come. Quentin moaned at the first splatter of come on his cheek, on his chin, his lips, and he opened his mouth wide to catch as much as he could.

Eliot’s moans softened into a sigh, his weight slumping back onto Quentin’s chest for a few seconds before he slid down onto the bed beside him. Quentin was _aching_ , breathless and overwhelmed and so, so painfully hard, but the blissed out look on Eliot’s face as he collapsed bonelessly beside him hit him on another level, pride and wonder and adoration mixing with his arousal to send a wave of longing through him. Eliot’s hand dropped to rest on his stomach, his forehead pressing against Quentin’s arm… and he still couldn’t move to wrap his arms around him. He wanted to pull him in, hold him close.

It still felt nice to have him curl up beside him. After just a few seconds Eliot pulled himself up onto his elbow, looking down at him with tired affection and delight. “Oh my god, look at you,” he murmured, reaching up with his free hand to swipe at his cheek with his thumb, and Quentin’s lips were already parted when he held it to his mouth. His chest swelled at Eliot’s sharp intake of breath as he licked his finger clean. “You’re so good, Q,” he breathed. “So good.”

His hand dropped to his cheek, the backs of his fingers touching it in a soft caress before they trailed down his neck. Eliot’s arm settled over his, his hand tracing patterns up and down his side in what was obviously post-orgasmic affection, and Quentin’s attempt not to let it rile him up failed miserably. Eliot’s words echoed through his mind, that he wasn’t going to get him off until he came again, and he knew he couldn’t possibly last. He couldn’t, not when that simple touch was enough to send a shiver through him all on its own. He had to.

Eliot pressed his mouth to his temple. “How are your arms?”

Quentin bent his elbows, not bothering to pull against his invisible restraints as he took stock of his muscles. “Fine,” he said, and mostly meant it. The discomfort was more present than before, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

Unlike Eliot’s incessantly teasing fingers. He swept them down his side again but this time he kept going, keeping his touch light as he danced over his hip, just missing his cock as he reached down to brush against the top of his thigh. Quentin whined, trying to angle his hips up. His hand left him entirely, before settling on this side of his face, and Quentin turned his head quickly back to Eliot just in time for his lips to meet his. He kissed him slow and deep, on and on and on until Quentin’s lungs felt like they were about to burst but he kissed him back anyway, desperate both for more and for this particular moment to never stop. He couldn’t do anything else, couldn’t seek any other pleasure or give anything else in return, so he poured every ounce of desire into kissing Eliot. When he pulled back, he was gasping in air just as heavily as Quentin was, his cheeks flushed as he smiled down at him. Quentin tried to smile back, but was so tightly wound, and when Eliot pressed a chaste kiss to his jaw, he trembled as the sensation of his lips on his skin ran right through him.

“You’re sensitive?” Eliot asked, as though it were in doubt, and Quentin froze when he remembered exactly what they were doing. What Eliot was doing to him. _I bet I could make you feel that good without the spell._ Heat flooded him as he realised that Eliot had _known_ , that he would get so worked up from Eliot using him to get himself off. Before he could examine that too much, he felt something brushing against his inner thigh, so light that he couldn’t tell if it was fingers or lips or tongue. “How sensitive?”

He should probably have been embarrassed by how quickly his legs fell open, but every thought just _stopped_ at the unmistakable feeling of a mouth kissing wetly down over his perineum before a tongue just like Eliot’s rolled against his opening. His breath left him in a long, low moan, and he squeezed his eyes shut, clenching his fists tightly, his fingernails digging into his palms. He tried to roll into Eliot, wanted to feel his body pressed against his, but a hand found his shoulder and pressed him back onto the bed. Forcing his eyes open, he turned his head to see Eliot watching him intently, his lips parted. It felt so good, too good, and he groaned as the tongue licked into him. “If you keep that up…”

“You’re not going to come,” Eliot told him calmly, as though it wasn’t even a question. “If I keep this up, you’re not going to come. Can you do that?”

“ _Fuck_.” Quentin tried to push it back, tried not to fall deeper into the pleasure that was thrumming through every inch of him, but he couldn’t help it, not with Eliot’s familiar tongue working at him over and over and over, not with his eyes on him, seeing every fragile part of him on the edge of splitting open. He wanted to hold back, wanted to please Eliot, but he was _right there_ and Eliot wasn't stopping. “El, I’m gonna — I’m gonna come, I —”

The mouth at his ass disappeared, and Quentin squeezed his eyes shut, breathing deeply, focusing on anything but how good that felt. Knowing Eliot was watching him sent a shiver through him that didn't stop, encouraged when Eliot's hand cupped his cheek. "You're okay," he said softly, and Quentin huffed a laugh. "Breathe, sweetheart. You’re okay?"

It took him a moment to realise that it was a question. He tried to speak, paused to clear his throat when the words got stuck. "Yeah," he managed, and realised that he was. The shivering had stopped, and he wasn't caught quite so precariously on that edge, but he could feel it. He opened his eyes and found Eliot watching him, a smile curling at the corners of his lips. "Fuck, El."

"Does it feel good?" Eliot asked, as though it weren't obvious, from the way he started trembling again as soon as invisible fingers started moving on his skin again. They traced over Quentin's neck, down his chest, his stomach, under and around his thighs and then back again. "I'm not going to stop it, now," he said. "And you're not going to come. Tune it out, do what you have to, but you're not going to come until I want you to."

“Oh my god,” he said, whimpering as Eliot’s hands explored every inch of him except for his dick and his ass, just enough to keep him on edge without tipping him over. His real hand curled around his jaw, tilting him to the angle that he wanted before leaning in and kissing him. Quentin craned his neck up, wanting to deepen the kiss, but Eliot pulled back just enough to keep it soft. And this was good, this was _good_ , he realised, the tenderness in Eliot’s touch filling him up in an entirely different way.

Eliot kissed him, on and on until he lost track of how much time had passed, until the soft and sweet brush of Eliot’s lips on his turned back to a filthy, clinging kiss. He loved that they could share both of those things, and that they only amplified the other. He couldn’t believe that Eliot was here, doing this to him, just because he’d wanted to make him feel as good as he had while under the effects of a sensitivity spell.

Pulling back, Eliot readjusted to prop himself up on his elbow next to him. His lips were red, and Quentin never wanted to stop kissing them. He wondered if he was going to drop down to take him in his mouth, but quickly pushed the idea away — both for the spike of arousal that it sent running through him, just from the thought, and because Eliot would know that would be too much for him.

His eyes followed his hand as it trailed down his chest and his stomach, pausing before he reached the head of his cock and then moving back up his body. Quentin fought to keep his hips still when his hand reached him again, knowing that Eliot would touch him when he wanted to and not a moment before. He managed to hold onto that thought for half a second before he jerked up, seeking friction, but Eliot’s hand was already out of reach again. Phantom fingers ticked at the inside of his thigh, and he felt it through every inch of him.

His hand drifted higher, rubbing over his shoulders, his upper arms, pushing his hair back out of his face. “I could just leave you here,” he said, and Quentin’s breath caught in his throat. “Go and make some drinks, get stoned with Margo, corrupt a few other first years. And you’d still be here for me whenever I felt like coming back.” And that... sounded like torture, being left here, naked, restrained, but he felt heat flood through him anyway, felt his cock twitch against his stomach. Eliot smiled wickedly as his eyes danced over him, seeing everything. “You like that, don’t you? That I could leave you here for hours?”

Eliot pushed himself further upright, slipping his legs underneath him so that he was kneeling beside Quentin, his legs spread. Quentin’s eyes dropped lower, his breath hitching when he saw that he was hard again, groaning when Eliot’s hand reached out to catch the lube that was floating over to them from his bedside table. He heard the familiar click _squelch_ as Eliot flipped open the cap of the bottle and poured a generous amount onto his fingers. “Leave you lying here, just thinking of doing this to me,” he continued, reaching around behind him, his eyes fluttering closed as his back arched, and Quentin — god, he wanted it to be his fingers pressing deep into him, opening him up, opening him up for — _fuck_ , if he was going to — the idea of Eliot, tight on his fingers, on his cock, consumed him, and he struggled against the grip on his wrists, trying to pull his hands free to take the place of Eliot’s, and if Eliot’s smirk was anything to go by, he _knew._

The hands around his wrists squeezed gently, thumbs stroking over his skin comfortingly, as the ones exploring his body moved lower to massage his legs. He couldn't take his eyes off of Eliot as his arm moved, his hips rolling back and forth, his lips parting in a sigh. "Oh fuck," Quentin choked out when the bottle lifted up into the air, uncapping seemingly on its own and tipping to pour lube straight onto his cock, the substance cool on his hot skin but then Eliot's free hand was on him, _finally_ , stroking lube over him while he opened himself up with the other. He gasped at the touch, bucking up into Eliot's fist, shuddering as he felt the sensation rolling through every inch of him again and again and —

"Don't come yet," Eliot said firmly, and he whimpered, trying to keep still, trying to — to fucking _breathe_. Eliot's hand left him, and he closed his eyes, not daring to look as he felt him throw a leg over his hips, settling once more on his thighs. Hands pressed against his sides, steadying himself. "You're okay," he repeated, smoothing his hands flat over his stomach, over his chest.

Quentin sucked in his breath when Eliot caught his nipples between his fingers. "El —"

"Mmm?"

He didn't even try to hide the smug pleasure in his voice, and Quentin laughed breathlessly, opening his eyes and looking up at him. His eyes were alight with desire, but his smile was unbelievably fond. Quentin groaned helplessly. "If you…" Just the thought of it was almost too much. "I'm not going to last."

Eliot hummed again, didn't pull his hands away but didn't move them again either. "What do you need?"

He just… _needed._ "To come,” he said, picking the obvious answer because it was true, but he also wanted float in this forever. Wanted to just spend forever in whatever Eliot wanted to do to him. But his body was screaming at him with his need for release, and he didn’t know how long he could ignore it. “Right now."

His teeth pulling at his bottom lip, Eliot grinned at him and — god, he was beautiful. His perfectly arranged curls fell messily over his forehead, his hair in disarray despite Quentin’s inability to put his hands in it. He tilted his head slightly, which only emphasised the long line of his neck. “Try again.”

“Just…” His arms were tense, and he forced himself to relax them. He hadn’t realised that he’d brought his feet up on the bed, giving himself some leverage to move up against Eliot, but he let them slip back down, trying to let go of some of the tension that had held him fast for too long. “Just give me a minute.”

Eliot held still for a few seconds before he nodded. Quentin stilled the flexing of his feet against the mattress before Eliot glanced back at them, but in the next moment he was shifting backward, down Quentin’s legs. “What…?”

“Relax,” Eliot said, his fingers pressing and sliding along Quentin’s calves as he worked his way down. Quentin watched him go, not quite sure where he was going with this until he settled on his knees beyond his feet and took one in his hands, steadying it with one hand while the other pressed a firm grip to his arch.

He hadn’t realised how much tension he’d held in his legs until Eliot’s hands worked up over his ankle and started massaging his calf. It felt good in a different way, an entirely different kind of relief, and Quentin sighed as he felt his body start to relax a little. When Eliot reached his knee he moved to the other leg and started working his way down. "That feels nice," he said, the incessant soft touches of the hands moving over his torso contrasting with Eliot's firm, sure grip on his foot in a way that had him melting into the bed.

"Yeah?”

“Mmm.” Closing his eyes, he sighed as he sank deep into the sensation, feeling himself drift slowly back from that tight, frantic edge. Eliot was unendingly patient, working him over slowly, seemingly content to let this draw out as long as he needed it to. After a few minutes, feeling warm and cared for and so, so loved, he opened his eyes again, lifting his head to look at Eliot as he squeezed along his left foot from his heel to his toes. “I can think of another place that might like that kind of attention.”

Raising an eyebrow, Eliot repeated the movement. “I thought the point here was to calm you down?”

“I am calm.” He was calm. Calmer, anyway, and… god, he really wanted to be inside him. Was _fairly_ confident that he could last, now. Maybe.

“Uh huh,” Eliot said skeptically, casting his eyes down pointedly to Quentin’s full and straining erection. “Looks like it.”

Eliot’s grin mirrored his own, but after a moment Quentin’s softened. He couldn’t believe that he could have this — this beautiful man, doing all of these terrible and wonderful things to him. He wanted to hold him close and if he couldn’t do that yet, to feel him, skin against skin. “Come here.”

Setting his foot gently on the bed, Eliot crawled up the bed and stretched out on top of him, supporting himself on his elbows on either side of his shoulders, but letting his body rest fully against him. The contact of Eliot’s stomach against his cock felt good, but he wasn’t going to come from it. “Hey,” Eliot said, leaning down to kiss him gently. His hips rolled down against him when he pulled back, and Quentin sighed with pleasure at the shiver that ran through him. “Are you ready?”

“Oh god, yes.”

Eliot dropped his head again, kissing lightly at the underside of his jaw, pausing to suck a mark into his skin before making his way up to tease the skin below his ear. Quentin fought against the urge to squirm both into and away from the touch. Fuck, he wanted to be inside him so badly. Eliot hummed, and Quentin felt the vibration on his skin. “I have another surprise for you,” Eliot said quietly, nipping at his earlobe lightly before pushing back to sit up.

“What —?” he started, but cut off when Eliot’s hand wrapped around him again, slick with more lube, stroking him slowly as he lifted himself up higher on his knees. Quentin held his breath as Eliot lined himself up over him, sucked in a gasp when he felt him against him, let it out in a long, low moan when Eliot started to sink down onto him. He pressed down slowly, slowly, and Quentin clenched his fists above his head, trying not to thrust up into the tight, perfect heat of him.

Eliot's eyes had slid closed, his face perfectly smooth and relaxed as he sank down on him, but once he was sitting on him fully, Quentin buried all the way inside, he opened them to look down at Quentin. Quentin could only stare, his chest tight as Eliot shifted slightly, getting more comfortable, and that small movement sent sparks shooting through him.

Setting his elbows on his thighs, Eliot brought his hands up and twisted them through a series of semi-familiar tuts, finishing off with a dramatic twirl of both wrists, and Quentin felt a… a brush between his legs, down against his opening, something slipping into him, but it wasn't as solid or forceful like the deliberate touch of Eliot's seeking phantom hands.

Before he could question it, Eliot lifted himself up, sinking back down again quickly, and Quentin's mind went blank. He repeated the movement again, slow lift up before dropping down fast, before he readjusted his stance to properly start riding him. He supported himself with his palms flat on his chest, while invisible fingers caressed the insides of his thighs. "Quentin," Eliot sighed. "Jesus Christ, you feel so good."

How could he have ever thought he had a chance of holding on through this? The continued friction, the hot slick grip of Eliot all around him after being practically untouched while on edge for so long brought him right back to it, and it couldn't have been more than a few minutes before he was right back in danger of tipping over it. He stared up at Eliot, flush with exertion and arousal, moaning from the pleasure that he was taking from him, and he started to tremble. "El —" he gasped, his voice high and strained.

"Not yet, Q," he panted, picking up his pace, and… _oh god._ "You can't come yet," and Quentin whined, squeezing his eyes shut and throwing his head back, pressing it into the mattress. He was so close, he couldn't hold on, but… but he was going to try, he was going to… _fuck,_ he was going to _try._

It wasn't until he could feel it _right there_ that Eliot finally stopped moving. As well as the shivering tension that he felt through every inch of him, there was a heaviness settling on his chest, something that might have been not enough air or too much or maybe just the result of being brought to the edge and pulled back again and again. This time felt different — with Eliot tight all around him, knowing that he was sitting on him, watching him — he felt like he could come just from thinking about it too hard. The phantom hands still explored him, softly, slowly, and he felt every movement like it was a livewire touched to his skin, the barely there caresses heightening his sensitivity until the slightest movement made him tremble.

 _This_ is what Eliot had done this for. _This_ feeling.

He just had to hold on long enough to make it worth it.

And he could do it. He _could_ do it. Opening his eyes, he looked up at Eliot once more. He sat completely still, his hands resting on his thighs, his eyes dark as he watched him, looking both delighted and hungry at the same time. Quentin knew he would do anything, in that moment, if it was what Eliot asked of him. He wanted to watch him fall apart again, didn't want to hold him back. "You can move,” he breathed.

“I’m fine right here,” Eliot said, and Quentin almost shook with relief. Slowly, so as not to disrupt him, Eliot leaned forward until his torso was flush with Quentin’s, curling a hand around the back of his neck and pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Are you good?”

“I’m good.”

“You’re not going to come?”

Fuck. “No,” he said, and hoped that it was true.

“Good,” Eliot said, and just… continued to lie there. With Quentin inside him, deep and hard and trying to will his way back from the brink of orgasm, and Eliot just lay there, wrapped around him. The phantom hands moved to massage lightly at his shoulders, his upper arms, a gentle reminder that they were there, that Eliot hadn't stopped the spell. He longed to drop his arms, to wrap them around him and cling to him, to sink into this moment of just the press of Eliot all along him, all over him, but the stretch of his arms above his head still held fast, and that… god, that shouldn’t have contributed to his arousal but it did, that he couldn’t move, not really, not while Eliot still held him down. He knew he could break the spell, dissolve the hands that held him, but… but he wouldn’t. He trusted Eliot unconditionally. He was completely under his control.

It wasn’t until the friction against his cock caused him to whimper that he realised he’d been grinding up into Eliot. One of Eliot’s hands dropped to his hip, holding him still. “Breathe, Q,” he murmured against his shoulder. “I’m not moving until you calm down.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so he groaned instead, feeling frustrated and turned on deep in his bones and loving every moment of it. He focused on his breathing, on relaxing just a little further with every exhale, keeping it slow and deliberate until he was no longer shaking with the tension he was holding onto. His hands unclenched, and for the first time since Eliot had activated the spell, the hands holding him down shifted from his wrists, sliding up until fingers slipped through his, hands clasping his tightly. He opened his eyes to see Eliot watching him from inches away, his real hand resting comfortingly on his neck. “Colour?”

“Green,” he said immediately. He hadn’t even considered tapping out — it was verging on too much, but only in the best way, and he hadn’t once felt unsafe or like he wasn’t enjoying himself or that Eliot didn’t have control of the situation. Eliot’s lips twitched in acknowledgement. He was looking down at him, with… with so much more than arousal, so much more than just physical desire, and it threatened to overwhelm him. That _he_ was the person who Eliot had chosen to share this with. “Eliot, I —”

“I know, Q.”

“— love you. I love you.” The emotion bubbled up his throat, welling in his eyes, and he didn’t try to hold it back. It wasn’t the first time they’d said it, certainly wasn’t the first time that he’d felt it, but he just felt _so much_ right now.

“Quentin.” He wasn’t expecting the gentle press of his lips against his, but he leaned into it anyway, desperate for contact, for the familiar affection, for _Eliot_. “You’re so… you’re so good for me,” he said, his lips brushing against his with every word. The hand at his waist slipped up his side, up his arm, stopping shy of his elbow before coming back down again. “Look at you. All stretched out for me.” He nuzzled against Quentin’s neck, the first hints of his stubble scratching lightly across his skin. “I love you so much.”

Swallowing Quentin’s moan, Eliot kissed him firmly, squeezing the back of his neck before he started to roll his hips over his. He moved slowly, and Quentin could feel his cock rubbing against his stomach every time. “You can hold on a little more, right, sweetheart?” Eliot murmured. “For me?” Quentin’s brain was finding it harder and harder to function, but he managed to squeeze Eliot’s phantom hands. Eliot pressed his cheek against his. “Q? Remember how I said I had a surprise for you?”

 _Oh god._ Quentin screwed up his eyes. How was he supposed to take _more?_ “Oh _god_.”

“Uh huh,” Eliot said. “You know the original spell was in the form of the caster’s mouth,” he said, and Quentin’s whine caught in his throat when he felt lips press against his mouth, on both sides of his neck, all at once. “Well, as well as hands —” the hands holding his firm squeezed gently, just as fingers twisted gently at his nipples, “— I’ve picked up a new trick.”

He’d completely forgotten about the pressure that had pressed into him beforehand, but now that he turned his mind toward it, he could feel it. The barely there presence solidified, increasing the pressure on his prostate slowly so as not to startle him. He was… not going to survive whatever this was. “Are you ready?” Eliot asked.

“Mmm,” Quentin said.

“Q?”

“ _Yes_.”

He heard the whisper of Eliot’s voice against his skin without catching the words, and then… oh _fuck._ He’d have jumped off the bed if not for Eliot’s body flush against his. The touch that had worked its way inside him before started to… to _vibrate_ , a constant pressure against his prostate. “Oh. _Oh.”_

“Yeah?” Eliot breathed, starting to move over him.

“Oh my god.” Quentin squirmed, chasing that feeling, and when Eliot sat up again, picking up his pace on his cock, he thrust up into him. This was _nothing_ like he’d ever experienced before, not even with any of the toys that Eliot had introduced him to over the last few months. This was nothing like anything he’d ever dreamed he could feel. “Oh my _god._ ”

“Q…”

“I —”

“Not yet, okay? Hold on for me, okay?”

He couldn’t. He… oh _fuck_ , that feeling was incessant, it was too much, he couldn’t — “El —”

The vibrations stopped just as suddenly as they started. “Breathe,” Eliot said gently, reaching down to push his hair out of his eyes. “Breathe, sweetheart.”

He was trembling. Head to toe, and he couldn’t stop. His hands flexed, and he felt fingers squeezing his in comfort. He forced a deep breath in, held it, shuddered as it left him. It was too much. “I can’t…”

“You can. You’re doing so good, baby. So good. Close your eyes, okay?”

He squeezed them shut, but nothing could block out the sound of lube, slick on skin as Eliot started to jerk himself off, or the way that he clenched around him. Quentin’s hips lifted automatically and Eliot moaned in response, and both that small amount of friction and the sound that Eliot made from it sent a wave of delirium through him. When Eliot started moving over him again, he knew immediately that this was it. No matter how much he wanted to last until Eliot said he could come, he couldn’t hold back. “Ready?” Eliot said, and Quentin managed a whimper before Eliot activated the spell again.

He was prepared for it this time, but it still caused all the breath to leave his body. And — it was _stronger_. Eliot rocked down on him faster, moaning every time he sank down onto him. “Look at you,” Eliot said brokenly, his voice deep, thick, strained. “You’re so fucking wrecked. _Fuck,_ Q.” His movements started becoming erratic, the wet sound of his fist moving over his cock speeding up. “Look at me. Q, look at me, look —”

In a daze, Quentin forced his eyes open, looked up at Eliot hovering over him, his carefully artful curls a mess, his skin flushed, his eyes dark, and he had to… he had to… Pressing his feet flat on the bed, he thrust up hard, his brain short-circuiting from the way Eliot tightened around him as he did so. Eliot’s brow was furrowed in incredulity, words falling from his lips almost frantically. “Yeah, yeah, Q, fuck me — just like… _oh,_ Q, yes, oh, Q, come for me, come on, come for me, in me, please, just…”

His hips snapped up against Eliot's and — after holding on for so long, he couldn't — it was going to be too much, but he — _ohhh._ Eliot all around him, his phantom fingers twisting at his nipples, the vibrating pressure intensifying against him, and his orgasm hit him like a deep rolling wave, flooding through him again and again. His back arched off of the bed, his whole body going taut before he started to shudder, and his world narrowed down to every thrill of sensation that Eliot was wringing out of him, and the sound of him crying out above him — until that was eclipsed by his own shouts.

It wasn't until Eliot fell forward onto his elbows on top of him that he realised he must have blacked out. All of the teasing touches on him had stopped, the vibrations ceased, but he could feel the sticky wetness between his stomach and Eliot's that told him that he'd come. _I did it,_ he thought, dazed, as he felt Eliot's chest heaving against his, and… the relief that bloomed hard and fast in his chest staggered him. "I —" he started, but lost the words when he started to tremble again, swallowing against the hard lump in his throat, blinking rapidly against the prick at his eyes.

"Quentin," Eliot breathed, brushing his lips lazily against his cheek before he buried his face against his neck. Eliot's hand against his cheek grounded him, his fingers a familiar comfort as they slipped around the back of his head, tangling in his hair. The scratch of Eliot's stubble sent another shudder through him — but that was nothing compared to the shock as Eliot moved off his oversensitive cock, and he whined, wincing back from it. "I've got you," Eliot murmured, settling more fully against him, and it… it was like just the weight of his body on his was a balm to every lingering tremor going through him. "You're okay."

The fingers threaded through his gave one final squeeze before they disappeared. Quentin’s hands lifted of their own accord, his muscles reacting instinctively after being held down so long, but then Eliot’s hands were right there, gently pulling his arms down. “You did so good, Q,” Eliot said, sitting up again so he could hold Quentin’s hand between them, and the feeling of his fingers massaging tenderly along Quentin’s arms balanced the tingling that started in his fingers as the blood flow to them increased. Quentin stretched them out, sighing as Eliot’s thumbs dug into his palms. “You’re so good.”

“Hmm.” He smiled as he hummed, his mind still not quite supplying the right words to indicate just how completely and thoroughly satisfied he was. And _tired._ Everything felt thick and hazy, but Quentin forced his eyes up to Eliot’s face as he pulled one of his hands up to press a kiss to his wrist. Catching Quentin’s eyes on him, Eliot turned his head slightly, and he both felt and saw him smiling against his skin. He wanted him closer. And now he could reach for him. “El,” he said, his name coming out hoarse, and he reached for Eliot’s waist with his other hand, intending to pull him down.

“Wait.” Eliot held out his right hand to catch the soft cloth that he must have summoned over, swiping over his stomach, keeping his touch slow and light as he wiped carefully over his groin. Quentin tugged on him anyway, wanting to feel him against him again, and Eliot huffed a laugh that sounded just as tired as it was affectionate, resisting him until he floated the cloth away. He sank back down on top of him, shifting to lie beside him before pulling him into his arms, and Quentin burrowed close. God, he was so _warm_ , his arms so strong around him. Quentin was bone-tired and wrung out, but he’d never felt so safe and loved.

He felt lips against his temple, his forehead, in his hair. “So,” Eliot said softly. “Did you like the new spell?” Quentin choked back a sound that might have been a sob or a laugh, he wasn’t sure which. _Did you… oh my god._ “Good,” he murmured.

He let Eliot shift him gently in order to get the quilt out from underneath them, and when they settled underneath it Quentin tightened his arms around him again, just because he could, just because he needed to. He pressed himself impossibly closer, humming when Eliot squeezed him back, pulling him on top of him, their legs twined together.

“You’re using that again,” Quentin told him weakly, and felt Eliot smile against his skin.

**Author's Note:**

> I can't believe I wrote 9.2k words in which the only plot is "Eliot learned some new tricks" and "when is Quentin allowed to come", but here we are.
> 
> Let me know what you think!


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